by Jack Conner
What was this? Even Throgmar paused to hear the rest.
Ungier smiled, almost serene now, as if causing Baleron consternation had somehow relaxed him. “I’ve longed to see the Black Tower since Gilgaroth first spoke of his vision to me thousands of years ago. But in the main I go to win back that which was mine—that which you have stolen.”
Baleron gave him a hard look. “She will not be yours.”
“She shall.”
“She is mine.”
Ungier raised an eyebrow. “From the sounds of it, she is Gilgaroth’s.”
“Then he will not give her up to you.”
“He must. She will be my prize for conquering your city. Although, I must say, I would have done it for nothing.”
“ENOUGH,” Throgmar grunted.
He bore Baleron away, flying up into the dark heavens and away from the ruins of Glorifel, and Ungier grew small below.
“THE BLACK TOWER AWAITS,” said the Leviathan.
Baleron gripped Rondthril’s hilt. Quietly, he said, “Then it waits for its destruction.”
Ungier watched the diminishing shape of Throgmar against the night.
Perhaps I can beat them, he thought. Either way, he must go. Glorifel was conquered. Rolenya would be his once more.
His eyes fastened on the decapitated body of Rauglir. He had never liked the demon, not after it had possessed Rolenya, but in this form it had proven an interesting companion. Ah, well.
Swiftly Ungier appointed a lieutenant to oversee Ungoroth in his absence, and departed. A squad of glarumri flanked him as he went, cutting a black swath through the night. All others fled before them.
I will win her, he vowed. I shall make her Vampire Queen of Ungoroth.
Chapter 11
On the second day of their journey, Throgmar set down for a rest. He’d been flying relentlessly, silently, without so much as a word to Baleron, since they had left Glorifel. Ungoroth. The prince had watched the land unroll under him with shame and loathing and sadness; the beauty of Havensrike had stretched to its borders and beyond, but now all was burnt and blackened; cities and villages razed and sacked, forests burnt or cut down for lumber. Rivers were poisoned or ran red with blood. Monsters lurked in the lakes, and ravening beasts lived in the hills.
Not despair but hopelessness filled him. He had a plan, yes, if such a thin thing could be called that, but he did not see how it could be achieved. For unless Rondthril could be purified of Ungier’s spirit and Baleron given the chance to use it—which seemed impossible at this point—the world was lost.
How could it have come to this? It was a scene out of a nightmare that he’d been dreaming for years, and it had come to its head.
But he was determined to find a way to defeat Gilgaroth. If he did not have that hope, he would go mad—if he was not already. And he might be: he often caught himself mumbling incoherently, and sometimes he would see the faces of dear ones floating by: Sophia, Salthrick, Logran, Elethris, Shelir, Albrech, Rolenya . . . all dead, or nearly. Was Rolenya still waiting for him? Did she still live? Was it true she now sang for the Wolf like some songbird in a gilded cage?
On the second day, Throgmar set down on the burnt top of a high hill near a muddy brook whose waters were still drinkable, though just barely, and both partook of the moisture with relish.
Afterwards Baleron took the opportunity to stretch his legs, Rondthril sheathed at his side. Cramps seized him, and he tried to work them off. Being in the unwavering grip of a dragon for days on end was a torture on the body, as well as the mind.
Throgmar sat, brooding, by the stream.
“DO NOT STRAY,” he warned Baleron.
The prince said nothing.
In a while a group of Borchstogs who had seen them alight on the hill approached. They were mounted on murmeksa, but they swung down from the shaggy backs of the creatures and bowed low to the Worm, and their leader spouted obsequious words that turned Baleron’s stomach.
The Borchstog offered their steeds to Throgmar for sustenance, and Throgmar took one look at the huge, tusked hog-like creatures with long rat tails, dark fur and cloven hooves—and said, “LEAVE THEM.”
“Yes, your Greatness,” said the leader in Oslogon. “Is there anything else we can do to ease your time?”
“WHAT CAN YOU DO TO AMUSE ME?”
The Borchstog thought a moment. “We have been trained in the festive arts. We can sing and dance for your pleasure. We can juggle, do tricks.”
“NO MORE JUGGLING.”
“Yes, Great One, as you say. Well, at our camp we have some captives you can devour or entertain your Greatness with, if you desire. There are some human women. If you can change your shape you can have them.”
Throgmar snorted. “I HAVE NO INTEREST IN MORTALS OR IN IDLE PLEASURES OF THE FLESH.”
“Truly?” The Borchstog’s curiosity overcame his good sense, and he asked, “Then how do you enjoy yourself, my lord? You’ve lived for thousands of years and will live for eons to come, surely. How do you get through each day?”
Throgmar stared at him with an evil expression until the Borchstog chief quailed and cast his gaze down.
“Forgive me, your worship,” he said. “I have overstepped my place.”
“INDEED. LEAVE ME THESE MOUNTS OF YOURS AND BE OFF.”
He snorted flame, and the Borchstogs hurried away. Left alone with the dragon, the great hogs shuffled nervously. Throgmar watched the Borchstogs go and, when they were out of sight down the hill, he spat a column of flame that roasted the ten tusked steeds where they stood. Then, without a word to Baleron, he ate them. After two days with no food, the cooked pork smelled delicious to the prince-king? Heir, at least—but he refused to beg the dragon for scraps.
When the Worm had had his fill—eight murmeksa—he slunk over to the brook and slaked his thirst, then folded his wings about himself like a blanket and lay down, making his camp for the night.
Using Rondthril, Baleron hacked off a chunk of hog, and the Worm did not stop him. He sheathed the Fanged Blade and ambled over to the Leviathan. Cautiously, he sat beside Throgmar cross-legged as he munched on his meat. Though overdone, it was actually not as bad as he’d feared.
Tilting back his head a bit, he stared up at the stars. Despite everything, it was a pleasant night, not too cool, not too hot, with a gentle breeze that blew across the hill with a feminine sigh. There was even the faint scent of flowers in the air.
It was good to see the stars again. Both at Krogbur and at Glorifel, a screen of dark clouds had blocked out the sky, and their merry twinkle lifted his spirits more than they would have.
He looked over to the vast mound of the Leviathan. The dragon’s eyes were closed, but he doubted Throgmar slept.
“So,” he said slowly, “am I returning to Krogbur as a prisoner because I failed to complete my task, or a hero because I did?”
“THAT IS FOR HIM TO DETERMINE. I AM JUST THE DELIVERER.”
“You do not have to be. You could have simply killed me outright. You were about to.”
“PERHAPS GILGAROTH WILL PROLONG YOUR SUFFERING. I HOPE SO. IF HE DOES, IT WILL BE SWEETER FOR ME THAN YOUR MERE FLESH.”
“That’s right, you don’t like mere pleasures of the flesh.”
Now both amber eyes were open, and they narrowed to slits of hate. “YOU SLEW THE ONE BEING I COULD ENJOY THEM WITH.”
Baleron knew he was treading on brittle ice, and he did not think it wise to continue this leg of the conversation, yet he was, as he’d been told often enough recently, both foolish and rash, and so he marshaled his resolve to say, “You deserved it. You torched my city, and burned my home. You killed thousands.”
“YES, I DESERVED IT. DID SHE?”
Baleron did not know how to answer that. He had actually given the matter much thought over the months of his imprisonment, and it haunted him still. Felestrata’s murder had bothered him, and he supposed it would continue to do so; he had killed a helpless, reasoning being who had do
ne him no harm.
However, he was also disturbed by the memory of the she-Worm changing into the form of Rolenya before his eyes. What could it mean?
He turned it over and over in his mind, playing with it as though it were a puzzle. Someone had wanted him to hurt. Someone had known he would slay her—after all, he’d been fulfilling his Doom—and had prepared for it. Throgmar had dismissed her transformation as a mere trick, and it was. But what kind of trick, and played by whom? Throgmar surely blamed his father, and there could be no doubt that it bore his signature. Yet . . .
Turning again to the dragon, he said, “Just how long did you know her?”
Throgmar, who’d closed his eyes, opened them again. “FELESTRATA?”
“Yes.”
“NOT LONG. A YEAR, PERHAPS. SHE CAME TO ME IN THE CAVERNS OF OKSIL, HAVING HEARD THAT I WAS THE LAST SURVIVING DRAGON OF THE FIRST BROOD, THAT I HAD SIRED A THIRD OF ALL THE DRAGONS THAT FOLLOWED OF THAT LINE, AND THAT I WAS ALONE AND HAD REBELLED AGAINST OUR MASTER. SHE CAME TO SUCCOR ME, AND TO LEARN FROM ME. WE GREW VERY CLOSE IN A SHORT TIME, AND THEN . . .” His voice hardened, and dripped with hatred. “THEN YOU TOOK HER FROM ME.”
Baleron wisely stayed silent for a while. During the silence, he thought on the dragon’s words and was reminded of the time the Wolf had sent him Rolenya in his pit, then stolen her from him. Suddenly, it came to him. As if out of a vision, the truth of what must have happened coalesced in his mind, and it was crystal clear, though no less monstrous because of it.
He was on the verge of revealing what he’d determined when the dragon’s hatred gave him pause. In telling what he knew, or thought he knew, he might just be spelling his end, right here and now.
Throgmar seemed to sense his thoughts and said, as if despite himself, “WHAT TROUBLES YOU?”
“Nothing.” Baleron turned his face away.
“NOT NOTHING. I CAN READ YOUR FACE ONLY TOO WELL, MORTAL. I CAN FEEL YOUR FEAR. TELL ME, OR I WILL RIP IT OUT OF YOUR MIND.”
Baleron resolved to himself that he would not. He had too much to accomplish; he could not afford to die.
“LOOK AT ME.”
The dragon exerted his will. Baleron struggled with it, but it was a losing battle and he knew it. He looked.
Throgmar’s amber eyes began to glow. Without the aid of a protective amulet, Baleron felt drawn in. Amber surrounded him, drowning him in seas of gold, and he was lost in the dragon’s power.
“TELL ME,” bade the dragon.
“It . . . was Mogra. Felestrata . . . she was Mogra.”
A long pause, then:
“NO. IT COULD NOT BE.”
“Yes, it could. It was. Ask yourself why she was in the region of Worthrick just at that exact moment. Don’t you see? He sent her to you in that form to lure you, to tempt you, to seduce you. He did it so that he could take her away from you—that so-called potion of his—so he’d have a tool he could use against you. Her. You’d do anything for her, even betray your own mind. That is why she was in those mountains, how she came to us so quickly. And that is why she left before we had been set free, so that she could return to Worthrick and assume Felestrata’s form once more.”
Throgmar shook his head in denial. “NO. IT COULD NOT BE.”
“Oh, yes it could.” Baleron tried to stop himself but couldn’t. The Worm’s compulsion was still upon him. “It’s just like him. It’s exactly what he would do, and you know it. But he never had any intention of giving her back to you. He and Mogra knew what I’d do, that I was following you . . . that I’d kill her. They stole her from you, and used me to do it. But they were clumsy. Finally, they made a mistake. Don’t you see? Because they tried to make it painful for me, too. Mogra, pretending to be a dead Felestrata, changed into Rolenya, trying to wound me, to make me think I killed her. In accomplishing my revenge I would destroy my greatest treasure. They love to cause pain. You know they do. They feed on it like vampires feed on blood.”
Throgmar was shaking his horned head. “NO. IT’S NOT POSSIBLE. MOGRA . . . IS MY MOTHER.”
“She’s a mother to Gilgaroth also, and you know how close they are.”
Seething, Throgmar snorted flame, almost killing Baleron. Thankfully, he was not looking straight at the prince, and the flame plumed to his side. Still, Baleron was singed a bit, and he shrank back a few feet. The pain shook him from Throgmar’s power, and he could master his own mind.
Yet he did not stop.
Throgmar looked horrified. “IT CANNOT BE. NO . . .”
Taking a perverse delight in it, Baleron said, “But it is. There was no Felestrata.”
“NO . . .”
“They used you, Throgmar.” It was the first time he’d called the dragon by name that he could remember. “You knew they were using you. You just didn’t know how much, and to what lengths they would go. Remember, the only reason they had to use you at all is because through you they could get access to Glorifel. And why? Because you had helped me, as they knew you would.” His voice took on a tone of defiance and hope. “Help me again, Throgmar. Help me like you did back then. Together, maybe we can strike at Him. Maybe we can—”
“NO!” roared the dragon, rising to his feet. “NO, I WON’T HEAR IT. YOU AND YOUR KIND ARE FULL OF LIES. YOU’RE OF THE FALLEN RACE, AND I WON’T SIT HERE AND LET YOU CORRUPT ME WITH YOUR FILTH. I PRESERVE THE PURITY OF FIRE. YOU WOULD TAINT ME WITH YOUR WORDS, BUT I WILL NOT STAND ANOTHER SECOND OF IT.”
So saying, he scooped up Baleron in a mighty claw, squeezing him tightly, and took to the skies, evidently too worked up to sleep. Baleron just breathed shallowly, as he couldn’t expand his chest enough for a deep breath, and hoped for the fit to pass soon.
It didn’t.
The dragon flew for two more days straight through without stopping. And when he did stop, Baleron tried to bring it up again, risking his fire. The Betrayer, however, would have none of it. He mesmerized Baleron with his eyes and forbade the prince from ever mentioning it to him again.
They flew on.
If nothing else, Baleron thought, at least he would see Rolenya again. For, with every beat of Throgmar’s wings, the Black Tower drew closer.
A trail of red smoke neared the rearing tower of Krogbur, deep in the dark center of Oslog. Shaped like a great crimson serpent, the tongue of smoke approached the screen of dragons that constantly circled the tower. Below the Inferno licked the tower’s sides, millions of screaming souls swimming through it, pursued as ever by demons. The Worms of the aerial moat eyed the red smoke and knew it for what it was—Lord Ungier—and even if they’d wanted to stop him, they could not, not in this form. He was taking no chances tonight.
The formation of glarumri that escorted him hung back as he neared the tower and began circling it . . . at a good distance from the dragons. Ungier slipped through the scaly moat of Worms and made his way up toward the black and lightning-lit clouds, ascending towards the highest terrace reserved for the most important visitors. Who could be more important than he?
Still, he marveled at the wonder of Krogbur as he climbed. It was mighty. It was beautiful. It pulsed with power, like the great black heart it was. Just passing through its air he felt strengthened. Revitalized. His father had outdone himself this time.
Ungier coalesced into his tall, batwinged form as he alit on the highest terrace, his all-black eyes glaring imperiously, and drew his wings about himself like a cape. Who was here to greet him? He saw no one.
However, before he could become offended, a huge shadowy shape stalked out of the depths of the interior. Eight long, segmented legs clicked on the slick hard surface, and Ungier swallowed as the being’s bulbous body came to loom over him. Lightning flickered, reflecting off its glistening carapace, black with traces of flowing purple. A strange, intoxicating musk radiated off it, and Ungier shivered, half in terror, half in delight, as eight unblinking red eyes gazed down at him speculatively.
He had not expected this. He would not have been surprised if Gilgaroth ha
d come to greet him personally, or if he had sent some high servant, but to have sent the Spider Goddess—their Mother . . .
This was an ill portent, and Ungier began to wonder if Gilgaroth suspected the reason he’d come. Suspected—and resented. It was with great fear and trepidation that he looked up into the Spider Queen’s many blazing eyes. He inclined his head to her slightly, a small bow.
“My Queen,” he said. “My Mother.”
“My son.” Her voice, as always, was heavy with meaning, yet beautiful, and her words well shaped. “Why have you left your escort out beyond the dragon-moat?”
“I . . .” He could not say he feared rebuke for coming here; that would display weakness. But if he lied, she would know. “I’ll bring them in directly.”
“Why have you come?” she asked. What did she know? Did she suspect? “Surely you have not yet conquered the whole of Havensrike so swiftly.”
“No. But,” he hasted to add, “Glorifel is taken, as is the southern third of the country, and its armies are broken. For all intents and purposes, it is defeated.”
She paused, letting him worry, then: “I know.” Nothing more. She was waiting for him, playing with him like a wolf with a hare. He did not like it, and it made him edgy.
“I have come to claim my prize,” he said, with perhaps too much boldness.
Another pause, calculating. “No prize was offered you.”
“Let me take it up with Him.”
She studied him. Her spider-face was impossible to read. “What prize do you require?”
“Rolenya.”
“He will not part with her. If you ask him for this, you will regret it.”
“For her, I would risk anything.”
Again she studied him. “Here,” she said, tapping a foot, and two Borchstogs emerged from the tower holding something between them. It rippled in the wind, glimmering darkly. The Borchstogs knelt and proffered the item to him.